The Black Knight
by Mercator
Summary: Poor Vetinari. It was supposed to be a simple chess game. But wizards are such sore losers. ***FINISHED***
1. A Bit of Mischief

I've set aside my duties as V's press secretary to begin a narrative fic. I'll do more on the "Office of the Patrician" fic soon. Thanks for all the great reviews!  
  
(Disclaimer: As much as I wish I had thought up the Discworld, I didn't. All characters and stuff belong to Pterry. Lucky stiff.)  
  
  
  
Chapter 1: A bit of mischief  
  
  
  
The Patrician Havelock Vetinari was a sighing sort of man. He didn't sigh at buttercups or rainy afternoons or kittens. He sighed at stupidity.  
  
A fine example of that trait sat across from him in the person of Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University and one of the worst chess players on the Disc.  
  
Ridcully wasn't normally stupid, he was merely stupid at chess.   
  
For the Patrician, that was enough. He sighed.  
  
"That is not a regulation move, Archchancellor," he said.   
  
"To hell it isn't, your Lordship! Look, I moved the horse like this..." Ridcully, knocked over several pawns as he grasped the white knight and moved it back three squares and sideways four. He sat back, smiling triumphantly. "See? Now I'm right up there at your king."  
  
The Patrician stared as Ridcully took a self-satisfied drag from his pipe. There was normally no smoking allowed in Lord Vetinari's parlour for the sole reason that smokers under prohibition tended to get nervous. That could be useful. But for some reason, Ridcully hadn't noticed the Patrician's raised eyebrow, or the small wave of his thin hand as smoke floated across the chessboard, or the single cough of warning that in the past had made smokers eat their cigarettes in Vetinari's presence.  
  
Instead, the Patrician watched Ridcully attempt a smoke ring.   
  
Lord Vetinari detected a movement in the tiny vein on his forehead that throbbed like a strobe light when he tried to practice a certain level of patience. That morning he'd learned the secretary to the Istanzian ambassador was a spy for the Ephebians and Ankh-Morpork's tax revenue was down 15 percent in the last quarter. Worst of all, there was evidence that some street entertainers and mimes were trying to form a guild. The last thing the Patrician needed at the moment was Ridcully.   
  
The vein throbbed. Vetinari sighed again.  
  
"The knight does not move that way, Archchancellor. I'll show you again."   
  
He began setting all of the chess pieces back to their start positions.  
  
"Here! What're you doing?" Ridcully said.  
  
The audience let out a loud "Ook!" and knuckled its way up to the board. Its sole member, the Librarian of Unseen University, bared his teeth at the Patrician. Lord Vetinari stopped. Orang-utan teeth have big stopping power.  
  
"Yes?" said the Patrician.  
  
"Ook?"  
  
"Because the Archchancellor has to play by the rules."  
  
Ridcully angrily exhaled two smoke clouds through his nose.  
  
"Are you accusing me of cheating?"  
  
"Of course not, Archchancellor. Only of misunderstanding the finer points of the game."  
  
Ridcully and the Librarian looked at each other.  
  
"Sounds like he thinks I been cheating, eh?"  
  
"Ook."  
  
Once more, the Patrician sighed. It was going to be, he felt, a long Ponce Featherhew Day. For a man who valued the newspaper horoscope for its absorbency, the Patrician's prediction was surprisingly accurate.*  
  
The Ponce Featherhew Day tradition was an ancient one, and Lord Vetinari was the last to argue openly with tradition. The chess board was the traditional ivory and ebony variety stored normally in the Palace Treasury and the pieces were the traditional carvings from the bone of the Three-footed Howandaland Sloth. They were misshapen from centuries of use.   
  
The traditional Ponce Featherhew Day chess game between the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork and the Archchancellor of Unseen University was supposed to symbolize the balance of power between state and magical institutions. It gave each a chance to work out any mutual aggression through non-violent means.   
  
Its origin was with Ponce Featherhew himself, a wood carver who saved Ankh-Morpork's king from assassination by pretending to turn his sire into a cooked celery. The regicide-minded wizards of the time were fooled when Featherhew stuck celery stalks up the nose of King Stoat II, who then announced "I ab a celery. Really, I ab." As remembrance, sad, limp little stalks were pinned to the robes of Ridcully and the Patrician.  
  
In the fine tradition of meaningless traditions, no human was allowed to watch the chess game. Thus the Librarian, a good-natured ape that was once a wizard, had a monopoly on the cheers and boos, while Wuffles, a malicious and malodorous terrier, failed to follow the game from his bed in the corner of the Patrician's parlour. Lord Vetinari had invited leading citizens of Ankh-Morpork's minority groups (dwarfs, trolls and the undead) to attend the match. But like every year, none showed up. Watching chess was about as exciting as eating cooked celery.  
  
Lord Vetinari moved the black knight several times. "Is the movement clear, Archchancellor?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, yes."  
  
"And here, the bishop moves so."  
  
"I remember that one. I'm not a complete idiot, you know."  
  
Lord Vetinari blinked slowly. "Certainly not, Archchancellor. Shall we try again, then?"  
  
"I go first since you stopped the last game," Ridcully blew a massive cloud of smoke over the board, "right when I was winning."  
  
They played in silence for a few minutes. The Librarian peeled another banana and followed the moves closely. The Patrician's hands moved like liquid across the board during his turns, but Ridcully blundered through, knocking over pieces and muttering to himself. He was not having fun. To him, chess was for those kinds of people who were flabby, pale and bad at sports. In his view, only women should play it. Sedentary women. The kind who knitted. And speaking of women, didn't the queen piece have a suggestive shape to it?  
  
As one of the Disc's champion chess players, Lord Vetinari could calculate five permutations of a move in his head per second.   
  
Ridcully got the shivers touching the queen.   
  
The outcome of their annual Ponce Featherhew Day games should have been obvious. Yet out of the past seven, Ridcully had actually won three. Lord Vetinari thought it prudent to let the man win every once in a while.   
  
But not this time.  
  
"Checkmate, Archchancellor."  
  
Ridcully leaned over the board and stared. "How, then?"  
  
"If you look closely, my bishop has an open path to your king," Vetinari said.  
  
"But look..." Ridcully moved a white pawn and flicked the black bishop off the board. "Got you, there, eh? Thought you could pull one over on me." He leaned back and puffed on his pipe. "You have to get up early in the morning before-"  
  
"--Archchancellor, you appear to have overlooked the black queen, who is standing two squares in front of your king."  
  
The Librarian let a banana peel slip from his hand. Ridcully stared at the chess board. After a moment, he straightened up in his chair.  
  
"I see," he said.   
  
The Librarian applauded and offered Lord Vetinari a banana. The Patrician accepted it graciously and set it on a side table for later. He stood up.  
  
"Well, Archchancellor, it's been another delightful Ponce Featherhew Day. You will certainly have better luck next year."  
  
Ridcully adjusted his pointy hat and glared at the Patrician. "I think we should go grouse shooting next year and see who comes out on top then." He fetched his staff and glowered at the chess board.  
  
Lord Vetinari steepled his fingers before his lips. "Alas, Archchancellor, I don't make the traditions. I only follow them."  
  
Though his mind was on other things, the Patrician did not forget one of his first rules of politics: Always be polite to a defeated opponent. It deepens the humiliation.  
  
He smiled and offered his hand to Ridcully, who stared at it for a moment with a strange light in his eye. The Archchancellor reached forward - the Librarian let out an alarmed "OOK!" -- and grasped Vetinari's hand.   
  
A ray of octarine light, the 8th colour of the spectrum and the colour of pure magic, shot from Ridcully's hand to Lord Vetinari's and sped up the Patrician's arm. It spread over his shocked face and down his robe to the tips of his shoes. For a moment, he was completely encased in the light. A cry of outrage choked in his throat.   
  
A moment later, it was over.   
  
The clock ticked. Wuffles, who had dived under his blanket at the moment of magical discharge, stuck his nose out and sniffed the air.  
  
Ridcully was alone. He looked in the palm of his hand and saw a small black form. A chess piece that only on closer inspection had the livid face of Havelock Vetinari. It was the knight, his sword drawn and his horse stamping the air. Its black surface had a sheen the Ponce Featherhew Day pieces had long ago lost.   
  
"I don't think I should have done that," said Ridcully.   
  
"Ook," said the Librarian glumly.  
  
"Still, I didn't know I had it in me. This old dog knows some good tricks, eh?"   
  
The Librarian slapped both hands against his head and began to sway, his lips puckered with worry.   
  
"Oh, well of course he probably won't appreciate that brilliant bit of magic," Ridcully said, "seeing that he's made of ebony now." He peered at the figure again. It fell over in his hand. "I wonder if he felt that."  
  
"Ook."  
  
"It was just a bit of mischief."  
  
"Ook."  
  
Ridcully glared at the Librarian. "You're a bag of negativity today, aren't you? When you should be congratulating me on a successful Croggly's Sub-dimensional Discombobulator, you're wondering if anyone will miss the Patrician while he's... discombobulated."  
  
"Ook."  
  
"The spell wears off eventually." Ridcully wrinkled his eyebrows. "I think."  
  
"Ook."  
  
"Yes, yes, all right," said Ridcully testily. He slipped the chess piece into his tobacco pouch.   
  
"Truth be told, I'm a bit used up. No good for magic until tomorrow. Maybe the others can figure out how to bring him back faster. Though if you ask me, the Dean has been a bit uppity lately and I won't mind showing him who's the big man in sub-dimensional transmutation."  
  
The Archchancellor and the Librarian slipped quietly out of the Patrician's parlour. When questioned, they informed Lord Vetinari's clerk Rufus Drumknott that His Lordship was "having a bit of a snooze." They high-tailed it out of the Palace and headed for Unseen University.  
  
Lord Vetinari noticed none of this. He was somewhere else...  
  
  
  
* The Patrician is a Virgo. Virg-o. With an "o" on the end. His horoscope for Ponce Featherhew Day was cast by Mrs. Marianna Longmower, professional seer, as follows: "Tribulations await Ye today. Hours'll seem like Days. Eat Beans at yer own Risk. Today's recommended Numbers: 8, 27, 131 1/2." 


	2. A Sense of Beat

++++ In chap. 1, Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully cast a devious spell on Lord Vetinari, who was instantly turned into a small black chess figure. Or so it seemed….  Warning: This is a long chapter, so make any potty stops or snack runs now. And thanks for all the great reviews so far!  p.s. Please forgive any strange formatting below. I'm still trying to perfect this html conversion thing.+++++ 

Chapter 2: A sense of beat

            The front hooves slammed against the frozen ground, slid a little as they scrambled to get in line with the hind legs, and the black horse sped off down the road. 

            Its rider clutched the reins in one hand, a sword in the other, and wondered why he hadn't fallen off yet. Lord Havelock Vetinari couldn't remember the last time he rode a horse. This fast anyway. The snow-covered fields on either side rushed away to the misty horizon. It was night. It was cold.

            With some difficulty, Lord Vetinari sheathed the sword. He'd always found swords too bulky and dramatic compared to the subtle yet effective knife. But the slim knives he was accustomed to would have slipped out of his hands now… due to the gauntlets. They were just one part of the armour he wore – arm cuffs, shin guards, and when he looked down, a breastplate. 

            He also wore chain mail with a hood. When he twisted in the saddle, he saw a helmet hanging from it by a leather strap. Two saddlebags flapped with a sloshing sound against the horse's haunches. 

            So…

            He was dressed as a knight and he was on a horse that seemed to know where it was going. Which was just as well because Lord Vetinari didn't. He was in some place decidedly not Ankh-Morpork, a place he reasoned to be 1) another country, 2) another time or 3) another dimension. As a ruler in the Discworld, he'd developed a nose for these things and so opted for option number 3. But instead of a dimension of palm trees, sunshine and surf, he'd apparently landed in one made up only of darkness and snow. What luck.

            Now that Lord Vetinari had assessed the situation, he allowed himself to get really bloody furious about it. 

            Ridcully had taken his hand. His eyes had _glowed_.  

            It was just like that time long ago, that memory Lord Vetinari squeezed down into the tightest corner of his brain, when the wizards had got out of hand and he'd spent some time – he wasn't sure exactly how much – as a yellow lizard staring out at the world from a pickle jar.*  The spell had surprised him then too. One moment he was the most powerful ruler on the Disc. The next, he had the urge to catch flies with his tongue.

            Vetinari shook off the memory and tried to concentrate on the issue at hand. How long until the spell wore off? Hours? Days? When it happened, when the Patrician returned to Ankh-Morpork with a cool head and his proper clothing, there would be a reassessment of the relationship between the city authorities and the leadership of Unseen University. Yes, he would certainly hatch a subtle and cunning plan. 

            But not right now.

            His head ached. It wasn't from riding, which to his surprise seemed perfectly natural to him now, his bad leg giving no indication of the stiffness and pain it usually had. And it wasn't from the cold wind that braced his face and whistled in his ears. 

It was more…a vague confusion that grew as he rode through the night. He wasn't quite feeling himself. The after-effects of the magic, no doubt.

            In the distance, one red and one green eye stared out of the darkness. The horse reduced its speed and followed the road until Vetinari heard a faint, rapid beat that sounded like hundreds of clapping hands and stomping feet. 

After a curve in the road and a short gallop over a hill, he saw the barn. It was massive, made of stone topped with thatch. Two lanterns hung over the door, one tinted green, the other red. Vetinari rode down the hill and reined up where various horses, mules, donkeys, cows, sheep, goats, a few ducks and some carts were parked at one of the barn walls. 

            The spurs on his boots clanged as they hit the frozen ground. It was strange; his legs didn't feel like a strawberry wobbler. They felt strong, stronger than they had in years. 

He left his sword belt thrust under a saddle strap, slung the saddlebag over his shoulder and went around to the front of the barn. Over the wooden doors hung a sign written in a script Lord Vetinari didn't recognize. He blinked once, and the letters seemed to clear. "Enter Ye Only that Bring Yer Own, Saith the Lord."

            A roar of laughter erupted from inside the barn. 

Contrary to what many people in Ankh-Morpork thought, Lord Vetinari rather liked parties. He had a talent for nursing a single drink for hours while smiling at and listening to the other guests. He never forgot what Lord So-and-So or Guild President Whatshisname said while under the influence. The next day, as the hangovers descended, _they_ remembered that _he_ had been there, smiling, nodding and storing every word they'd said in the file cabinet of his mind. 

Lord Vetinari pushed open the barn doors. The smell inside pushed back. 

The regular inhabitants of the barn, who were milling about outside with Vetinari's horse, had left behind their farmyard smells. They mingled now with the scent of hundreds of largely unwashed people, many of them dancing in a circle in the middle of the barn floor. Someone had rigged up an indoor grill and had recently burned the offerings. There was also a reek of alcohol, a kind too strong to have been brewed in an indoor still. All of this might have bothered Vetinari but he was a native of Ankh-Morpork, where the stench was a mark of civic pride.

As he moved inside, people smiled at him and waved or called out "Halloo, milord!" They were people used to being out in the weather, faces that had been drenched by rain, dried by sun and frozen by ice. The men wore green vests and the women red dresses with a hat or ribbons in their hair. 

Lord Vetinari was slightly disoriented by the cheerful greetings. None of the people in the barn bowed to him, none gave him a courtly nod, none rushed out of his line of sight in hopes of avoiding his glance. That was the usual way of it in Ankh-Morpork. The people here seemed positively _happy_ to see him.

An old woman bounded up to him and shoved a wooden mug into his gauntlet.

"There y'are, milord!" she cried. "Drink this up. It'll put hair on yer chest and nipples on yer head." 

"It hasn't seemed to have achieved that with you, good woman," Vetinari said, "unless there is something under your hat I would be very alarmed to see."

The old woman chuckled and relieved him of his saddlebags. "I see ye brought yer own," she said. She pulled a bottle out of the bag and uncorked it. "Wine. Not my thing but the toffs might like it." The woman and the saddlebags disappeared into the crowd.

Lord Vetinari delicately sniffed at the contents of the cup the woman had given him. His eyes watered. Other bits of him did too. It was quite possibly 100 degrees in the barn. 

He carefully set the cup aside and moved off to a relatively quiet corner to see to his armour. This was not as easy as he would have liked. The gauntlets had to go first, then the arm cuffs, which meant undoing buckles with one hand. Once that was accomplished, he had trouble reaching the buckles on the sides of his breastplate. Twisting in the thing was like moving around in a soup can.

A woman holding a cup that contained a lemon slice and a paper umbrella watched Vetinari for a while with a little smile of amusement on her face. She finally separated herself from the crowd.

"Let me help you, sir," she said. 

She stooped and began unbuckling the shin plates.

"That is kind of you, madam, but I don't need help," Vetinari said.

The woman made quick work of the second shin plate, began on the breast plate buckles and started humming a little tune. She had the air of someone enjoying that feeling of invincibility that comes after a few strong drinks. It's the feeling that has inspired such fateful words as, "Sure I can drive! What could happen?" 

The woman noticed the wrinkles of disapproval between Vetinari's arched eyebrows and the decidedly downward tilt to the corners of his mouth and then did what no one in Ankh-Morpork save the wizards would do. She ignored them. Metaphorically speaking, she reached for the car keys. 

"Don't call me madam," she said as she tugged on a buckle. "I'm Alexandra. From down Taylorsville way." 

"Delighted, madam," said Lord Vetinari. "But I do believe I can undo the –"

"I know who you are, you know." She flashed him a quick smile and went on to the last buckle. "You've been sent by the king to preside over the Lottery. We don't get too many knights around otherwise. We've got, oh, practically the whole valley here this year. Mr. Smiggins counted 500 people earlier, the biggest festival ever." She rapped the breast plate with her knuckles. "There you are, sir. All finished." 

Lord Vetinari set the breast plate aside. He pulled off the chain mail and discovered that he was wearing a suit of dark green trimmed in red. The heat in the barn was at least bearable now.

"Better?" Alexandra asked. 

"Yes, madam, thank you." He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "May I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"How would you rate your grasp of world geography?"

"On a scale of one to ten with ten being I know the capitol of every nation and one being I don't know where we are now, I'd say….seven."

"Really? That could be helpful. Then may I also ask if you have, by any chance, heard of Ankh-Morpork?"

The laughter started somewhere deep in Alexandra's chest. Vetinari could practically see it working its way up her throat, blossoming to her mouth and settling in her eyes. She tossed back her head and let the laughter take her.

"Ankh-_Morpork_?" she gasped after a moment. "It sounds like…it…" She wiped a tear from her eye and then noticed Vetinari's icy stare. "It…well…No, sir. I've never heard of a place called…that." She pressed her lips together but a giggle still escaped. "Is it a country?"

"A city, actually," said Vetinari. Ankh-Morpork wasn't just _a_ city, it was _his_ city. He was sure of it. But he suddenly couldn't remember exactly why. The pain in his head flared up, and he put a thin hand to his temple.

"I do apologize for laughing, sir," said Alexandra, noticing the pain that crossed his face. "It's just that, well, there's a certain disease only transmitted by—"

Vetinari held up a hand. "No need to explain, madam. No doubt the name sounds…foreign to you." He sighed, and the headache subsided. "It does appear I no longer need your assistance. Don't let me keep you from the festivities."

"Glad to help, sir. And don't you worry about leaving your armour here while you dance. No one will dare steal it."

"I hadn't intended to dance." 

"No?" Alexandra smiled brightly. "It's Lottery Night. Dancing is tradition." She grasped Vetinari's hand and pulled him toward the dance floor.

The other couples made room for them. The people danced in two rows, men on one side, women on the other. There was much clapping and knee slapping and skipping around while holding hands or linking elbows. It was synchronized to the beat set by the fiddle and the banjo.

Lord Vetinari shook his head firmly.

"I really do not dance, madam."

"Everyone dances, sir."

He appeared to think about this a second.

"No… No, I'm quite certain that everyone does not dance. I, for one, do not. Besides, I'm not familiar with this…country art of dancing. It appears everyone knows the steps. I have no inclination to learn them nor do I have an interest in deciphering the meaning of 'dosey-do.'"

"Nonsense," said Alexandra. "All you need is a sense of beat. And dosey-do is when you cross your arms like this and then go around your partner like this." 

She demonstrated. Lord Vetinari did not join in.

"Oh, stop being so self-conscious," said Alexandra.

"It is the nature of human beings to be at least somewhat conscious of the self," Vetinari said calmly. "It's healthy. Like tooth powder and regular baths. Things that would clearly benefit the good people here."

Alexandra wrinkled her nose. 

"A comment on the hygiene of us country folk," she said. "Ha. Ha. You are witty, aren't you, sir?" 

Lord Vetinari thought this called for the extreme arching of both his eyebrows at once. Alexandra didn't notice; she was frowning at his boots. 

"You won't dance very well in those spurs," she said. She dropped down, unbuckled Vetinari's spurs and tossed them aside. She bobbed back to her feet and smiled.

"Any other comments you'd like to make before we start, sir?" she said.

Vetinari considered this. "You are a strong-willed, lively and articulate young woman," he said. 

"If by that you mean I'm a pig-headed, tiresome gal who won't shut up, thank you. I've been called worse. And let's see…" Alexandra tapped her lips as she thought. "You are an arrogant, condescending nobleman in need of a drink and a bit of fun. No sub-text there, by the way." She winked.

Lord Vetinari stared. Nobody winked at him. Ever. 

"This banter has gone on quite long enough, madam," he said. "I mean no disrespect to you or your country customs but —"

"Ah!" Alexandra turned toward the 5-piece band, which consisted of fiddle, banjo, drum, pipe and jug. "They're starting the Roll-in-the-Hay," she said. "You have to know that one, sir. Everybody does." She started to bounce to the music.

 Vetinari had not in fact danced in years due to his bad leg and his general aversion to looking like a fool. His leg appeared to be fine now but his pride had not been transformed by Ridcully's magic. Neither had his conviction that one must be at least minimally polite to ladies regardless of social class and inebriation level. There didn't seem to be a polite way to extricate himself from Alexandra or the dance floor.

            "If I am to preside over this Lottery or…whatever proud rural tradition that is to happen here," Vetinari said over the music, "I should certainly talk to the municipal head of this area."

            "There's time for that later," said Alexandra. She swiped a cup from a serving maid. "Drink a bit of this and you won't be so scared to dance."

            "I assure you, madam, it has been several decades since I was scared of anything. I merely think it would be wise to--"

            "Relax a little," Alexandra said. "R-E-L-A-X. You've heard of it, haven't you, sir?" 

            Her smile widened, sopping with encouragement. "Do take a drink." 

            She held up the cup and Vetinari was reminded of a painting -- for whatever reason he couldn't remember the name or where he'd seen it -- of a sorceress who offered a man a magical draught. The cup of eternal life, of youth, something of the sort.

            He really was rather thirsty.

            "What is this drink?" he asked.

            "We call it Scumble. It's made from apples. Mostly." Her encouraging smile didn't waiver. 

            Lord Vetinari sniffed at the cup and it did, indeed, smell of apples. It also smelled of turpentine. 

            "This wouldn't have any effect on either chest hair or nipples, by any chance, would it?" he asked.

            Alexandra laughed and made a show of patting at her chest. "I've already had two drinks and it seems like everything's in order," she said. "Drink, sir."

            Lord Vetinari was aware that drink was absolutely what he must not do. His head still ached, though just why it did had suddenly slipped his mind. He vaguely remembered that there was some fundamental rule he always followed: a drink offered by a stranger should be tried by at least three reliable personnel before he accepted it. 

But what really bothered him was Alexandra's total confidence that he, Lord Vetinari, was no threat to her whatsoever. It was not the kind of interpersonal relationship he was accustomed to. 

Besides, he couldn't imagine anyone encouraging him to drink a schnapps-like beverage on the dance floor at a party in Ankh… Vetinari paused a moment. What was the name of the city? Ankh…something. Two syllables. Starts with an M. He'd known it a moment ago. It was right on the tip of his tongue. 

His headache was joined by a growing uneasiness. Why couldn't he remember the name of the city? When he thought hard, when he conjured up an idea of "city" in his mind, the name Tallstone surfaced. He felt vaguely that Tallstone lay to the south. It was a city, but… Something wasn't quite right. 

He tried to concentrate, but old memories seemed to be slipping away through a sieve in his mind. New memories poured in from out of nowhere. 

Lord Vetinari remembered suddenly that it was rude to refuse a drink from a lady.

            He took the cup from Alexandra's hands and drank.

* See Sourcery


	3. Wood and Silver

+++ This chapter could've been named "Meanwhile, back in Ankh-Morpork…"+++

Chapter 3:  Wood and silver

            Ridcully looked in at the university dining room and saw the Senior Wrangler napping with the tablecloth tucked under his chin. The Senior Wrangler had dropped off after lunch's third course, awakened briefly and decided there was no point in leaving before tea.

            "Faculty meeting!" Ridcully shouted.

            The Senior Wrangler jerked awake, jumped to his feet and four silver place settings crashed to the ground.

            "Yes, Archchancellor?" he said as he disentangled himself from the tablecloth.

            "Faculty meeting, I said. Where's the Dean?"

            "He's seeing to the Bursar with Runes and Stibbons." 

            Ridcully pointed dramatically at the ceiling. "To the Bursar!" 

            The wizards rushed as fast as academics accustomed to four and a half meals a day could manage. The Senior Wrangler took a breather on the first floor landing but Ridcully forged on. He was shouting before he reached the Bursar's office.

            "Dean! Runes! Stibbons! Faculty meeting!"

            Ponder Stibbons, Unseen University's youngest, brightest and thinnest faculty wizard, slipped out of the Bursar's office, a finger to his lips.

            "Archchancellor, the Bursar's just got to sleep. He's had a hard time of it today…"

            "Nonsense!" 

Ridcully pushed past and found the Dean's significant girth blocking the view of the Bursar's couch. "Did you hear, Dean? Faculty meeting!"

            "We can't have a meeting with the Bursar in this condition," said the Dean.

            "Eh? What's wrong with him? Too much napping in the middle of the day, I'll wager." Ridcully looked down at the reclining Bursar, whose eyes were closed. His usual daft smile was noticeably absent from his face. 

            The Lecturer in Recent Runes held up a glass bottle full of small green pills. "It's these, Archchancellor."

            "Dried frog pills. What of it? Bursar should be saner than us now."

            "Well, sir, the usual dosage is two pills every four hours."

            "And?"

            "And he's had four pills. In the past hour. That we know of. "

            The Archchancellor's eyes swivelled onto the Dean. "And how did this happen, Dean?"

            "Why do you always assume it was me who did something wrong?"

            "Answer my question."

            The Dean's bottom lip stuck out. "How was I supposed to know that Stibbons had already given him some?" he complained. "I wasn't _there_, you know. All I knew was that the Bursar was a bit… flightier than usual. A lot more, really. And I thought, no harm giving him a few more pills. I acted out of pure disinterest."

            Ponder opened his mouth to speak but Ridcully was faster.

            "Until further notice, no one, and I mean no one, is to give dried frog pills to the Bursar. Is that clear?" The wizards glared at one another and nodded. "Right. Now, where's the Chair?  He should be at the meeting too."

            The senior wizards shuffled their feet and gazed at various points on the Bursar's calming cream-coloured office walls. Ponder sighed because he assumed he would be the one to impart bad news about the Chair of Indefinite Studies. After a deep breath, he let the lemming out of the pillowcase.*

"He's meeting with students, Archchancellor," he said.

            "He's _what_?"

            "I think he's holding a seminar."

            For a moment Ridcully was speechless. He often boasted that during his 50-year career at Unseen University, he could count on one hand the number of times he had met with students. If you asked him, once per decade was once too much.

He made little choking noises, then the blocked passages in his throat finally cleared.

            "A seminar?" he said, the colour rising on his face. "With _students_?"

            "Yes, Archchancellor."

            "Are you sure?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Did anybody give him dried frog pills?"

            "I think he's trying to impress Mrs. Whitlow," said the Senior Wrangler petulantly. Mrs. Whitlow was the robust, and some wizards had noticed, busty university housekeeper. The Senior Wrangler had a secret, vivid fantasy world involving him, Mrs. Whitlow, a pair of coconuts and a cream torte. 

            "She did say that it's a shame the students spend so little time with the faculty," said the Dean.

            "When did she say that?" said Ridcully.

            "Last Tuesday. She helped serve the cheese course."

            "Was I there?"

            "Yes, Archchancellor."

            "Why didn't I hear her, then?"

            Ponder was ready with a reply when he caught the looks of the other wizards. There was no point informing Ridcully that he'd snored through the cheese and salad courses. The Archchancellor always denied that kind of thing.

            "All right, then," Ridcully said. "Mister Stibbons, you fetch the Chair, everybody get your staffs, and we'll meet in the main hall in five minutes. Right? Right!"

            The Bursar suddenly opened his eyes.

            "Hello, Archchancellor," he said. 

            "Good to see you back with us, Bursar. Coming to the faculty meeting?"

            "Certainly, sir." 

            The Bursar got to his feet, fetched a notebook and pencil and calmly walked out of his office. The wizards stared after him. The cuckoo clock the faculty had given him on his last birthday ticked away the minutes. The Dean finally broke the silence.

            "Seems rather eerie when he's sane, doesn't it?" he said.

            The wizards fell silent again. They'd grown so accustomed to the Bursar's harmless insanity that they hesitated to admit that they preferred him that way. He was cheap entertainment and he didn't check the faculty expenditures so closely. 

Ridcully finally reached into one of the compartments in his hat and pulled out a glass bottle. There were only a few mouthfuls of golden brown liquid left in it.

            "Senior Wrangler, you better fetch another brandy from the cellar," he said. "And bring some glasses."

            Ponder rolled his eyes. "Of course mixing dried frog pills with alcohol will have no detrimental effects on the Bursar," he said. He'd momentarily forgotten that Ridcully thought sarcasm was a very large canyon in the east.

            "There you are, gentleman," said the Archchancellor. "You heard it from Mister Stibbons. The Bursar will be back to his old self after a little tipple. Now let's get on with it. I've got an important announcement to make."

            Ten minutes later, the wizards had assembled in the main hall, staffs in hand. The Bursar held his pencil and notebook. He looked ready to be politely interested in anything that might be said. The Senior Wrangler offered him a glass of brandy which he obediently drank up.

            "Did you win the chess game, Archchancellor?" Ponder asked.

            Ridcully beamed. "You _could say that."_

            "You could?" Ponder knew the Patrician was the best chess player in the city and he'd been keeping track of the numbers of Ponce Featherhew Day wins and loses. He had expected the Archchancellor to return to the university in a foul mood that he'd spread around by asking faculty members what it is they do all day. Ridcully called it Taking an Interest.

            "You could say, most definitely, that I did, in fact, win the game," the Archchancellor repeated carefully. He stared hard at the senior faculty, which finally took the hint.

            "Well done, Mustrum," said the Dean.

            "Good show, Archchancellor," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who'd been reprimanded for the seminar. He felt he had some ground to make up. 

            The doors to the hall swung open suddenly. Every wizard except Ridcully slowly took one step away from his colleagues.

            The Librarian stood in the doorway with a loaded 500-pound crossbow on each hip. He was grinning.

            "I do apologize for that little monkey joke I told last week," the Lecturer in Recent Runes said hastily. "No harm in a joke, what?"

             "Ah, Librarian," said Ridcully. "Bring those over here. I want them in reach. That's a good man."

            "Ook."

            "--ape."

            As soon as the Librarian had set down the crossbows, the wizards relaxed.

            "What do you need those for, Mustrum?" asked the Dean.

            "In case he comes back swinging, Dean."

            "Who?"

            Ridcully took out his tobacco pouch. "We now come to the reason for this faculty meeting." 

"I've got some already rolled if you want them, Archchancellor," said the Chair, who was determined to butter up Ridcully in order to get back his croquet privileges.**

"No, no," Ridcully said. "I was looking for this. Gentleman..." He dusted off a few loose tobacco leaves and held up the black chess figure with a flourish.

            "You stole a chess piece," said the Senior Wrangler in the tone of all tattletales everywhere. "The Patrician won't like that one bit."

            "Look closer, Senior Wrangler."

            The wizards gathered around and peered at the figure. There was a deep silence. The Bursar, who was feeling much better after his drink, wandered over to the crossbows.

            "You didn't, Archchancellor," said the Senior Wrangler.

            "I certainly did." 

            Ponder put a hand over his eyes. The Lecturer in Recent Runes gingerly touched the black knight and pulled his hand away as if burned.

            "What did you use?" he asked.

            Ridcully drew himself up and thrust out his chest proudly. He would've stuck his thumbs in his suspenders if wizards needed anything but their stomachs to keep up their trousers.

            "Dean, do you remember when you told me that Croggly's Sub-dimensional Discombobulator required weeks of careful mental preparation, intensive study of Croggly's obscure script and the consumption of two bottles of 12-year-old scotch?"

            "No, but that sounds like something I'd say."

            "Well," said Ridcully, "I did it like this." He snapped his fingers.

            The senior faculty gasped. 

            "Bra-_vo_, Archchancellor," said the Dean. 

            They all looked at the chess piece with renewed awe. Except for Ponder, whose eyes might have bulged out of their sockets if he hadn't been wearing glasses.

            "But…but... It's the Patrician!"

            "That's right, Mister Stibbons. Well observed, there." Ridcully set the chess piece on a table.

            "But why?"

            "He was being difficult."

            "He's always difficult. That's his job!"

            "You know, the negativity around here is really getting on my nerves," Ridcully said. "Shall we start those daily affirmations again? At dawn? In the quadrangle?"

            The rest of the wizards glared at Ponder, who fell silent. He could handle being up at dawn. Sometimes with his work on Hex***, he never went to sleep. It was the Archchancellor's demands to start the day with a lap around the campus while chanting "I'm a lean, mean magic machine" that he couldn't live with.

            The Lecturer in Recent Runes slapped the Bursar's hand away from the safety catch on one of the crossbows.

            "It makes sense now why you had these brought in, Archchancellor," he said. "But one of the bolts appears to be tipped with wood and the other with silver."

            "The Patrician's a bit eccentric, Runes. Best to have all the bases covered." 

            The wizards considered this for a moment. To them, the Patrician was normally the tall, thin man in black who ate only a fraction of the delicious morsels they piled on his plate at university dinners. This alone was enough evidence of at least latent vampirism. As for the silver-tipped arrow… They had seen him smile. Once or twice. The leader of a wolf pack in Uberwald in winter after a week on a starvation diet could have managed to look friendlier.

Ridcully took a dramatic breath. "Gentlemen, we have a problem. The Patrician has been sent to another dimension, my magic's all out, and we've got to bring him back fast. Any ideas?"

* Resourceful Ankh-Morpork pillow manufacturers had taken to sending unstuffed pillow cases to agents in the country who stood at the bottom of certain cliffs with a club in one hand and an empty case in the other. It was cheaper than feathers. It was also the origin of the A-M street term "I'm gonna lay onna lemming," its meaning similar to "I'm gonna hit the hay," which was far more common in Alexandra's dimension. 

** See The Last Continent for an explanation of why it is necessary to lock up the Chair's croquet mallets when he gets a little frisky.

*** Young student wizards spend their time in the High Energy Magic Building where Hex, the Discworld's first artificial intelligence, delves the depths of the thaum, the smallest unit of magic. The senior wizards think Hex might one day be useful for sorting recipes.


	4. Fresh Air

Chapter 4: Fresh air

            Every twenty minutes or so, Sir Havelock Vetinari moved off the dance floor and partook of an increasingly delightful drink Alexandra called a Scumble Colada – a shot of scumble mixed with ice cold water, a bit of brown sugar and a coconut slice.* He'd lost count of how many he'd consumed but then, he'd also lost count of how many fingers he had on his hands.

            He'd observed one round of the Roll-in-the-Hay, and then entered the dance himself, executing the steps so efficiently and precisely that other dancers stood aside to watch him. He really hit his stride with the Happy-Cow, which among other things involved stooping and making downward jerking motions with the hands. By the fourth dance and his third Scumble Colada, Vetinari knew the steps to the dances before the caller announced them. 

The uneasiness he'd felt before his first drink had evaporated. His head still ached a bit but his memory seemed to be in perfect working order; the Leap-Frog-Jig came after the Pitchfork-Reel. It always had. After awhile, Alexandra had a hard time keeping up with him.

            "Tired already?" he asked as she breathlessly stepped off the dance floor.

            "I'm dying of thirst. I have to sit one out, sir."

            "Don't call me sir," Vetinari said as he handed her a cup of water from the buffet. "We've shared at least six dances and…" he thought a moment, "…some scumble. You may now call me Havelock." 

            Alexandra smiled and Vetinari saw her face glow with a scumble-soaked radiance. He was sure she hadn't been particularly beautiful when he first saw her. Pretty, perhaps. If she was laughing and one discounted the freckles.

But now, with her hair damp, her face moist, her eyes bright, she was… exquisite. Of course, Vetinari had consumed his share of alcohol in his life as a knight and knew its filter effects. It was a bit like magic. The plain made beautiful with the wave of a hand, as long as that hand held a tall cup of scumble. 

He tried to recall that inventive man who he vaguely remembered was locked up in some part of a palace somewhere. If the man existed – and wasn't some figment of Vetinari's scumbled up imagination --  he'd do a painting of her. Yes. And Vetinari would certainly hang it up in… that place where he always worked. An office. Had a shape that wasn't square. 

These thoughts wavered and disappeared. Remembering didn't matter. He was _here_. There were people and music and Scumble Coladas and Alexandra and he hadn't had this much fun since… well, he couldn't remember that either.

He remembered other things. He knew all of the dances, and he knew that he had presided over country lotteries before in barns and barley fields across the kingdom. His black horse was called Snowy, revealing just what kind of a sense of humour knights tended to have. He had three castles on the south western edge of the kingdom, and had ridden 100 miles from Tallstone, the capitol.  He had the reputation of being a loyal vassal and an able administrator. He was a widower without children. It occurred to him that some of these facts didn't quite fit. He was normally something else too, something important...

            But right now he was just Havelock on a Scumble Colada high with a woman on his arm and if he was not mistaken, there was certainly a hayloft on the far end of the barn. This held possibilities.

            "When does the lottery begin, Alexandra?" he asked.

            "We usually do the draw at daybreak," she said. "We have a couple of hours." 

            Vetinari looked down at her and smiled. His smiles had normally involved the turning up of the corners of his mouth and, if something was especially hilarious, the showing of his top teeth. The rest of his face was not involved. Now the smile was relaxed and reached all the way to his eyes. It was rather pleasant and not at all threatening. 

He turned his eyes back to the far end of the barn. The hayloft was quite high up. The indoor ladder to it had been removed but there appeared to be a way in from outside. There were many bales of hay arranged in such a way that surely privacy would not be a problem.

Alexandra followed Vetinari's gaze. "You aren't…but surely… There are hundreds of people here! You couldn't be thinking--"

            "To be honest, I'm not thinking much at all," Vetinari said with some satisfaction. "It's an amazing fact that most people live their lives without stringing together more than a half dozen significant thoughts. Maybe not even that many. I, on the other hand, always think. I didn't consider it a flaw in my character until now." 

            Alexandra made a show of choking on a pretzel she'd been eating. "You? Admit a flaw?" She shook her head. "I don't believe it. Your arrogance tonight was so impressive up till now. Don't spoil it by becoming humble; Noblemen do it so badly." 

"Your self confidence is also noteworthy, Alexandra," Vetinari said. He snatched the remaining pretzel from her hand and popped it in his mouth. "How do they get the salt to stay on?" he asked as he chewed thoughtfully. 

"Probably a trade secret," said Alexandra. "And don't think I didn't notice how you changed the subject so fast. I'm not talking about pretzels. I mean the hayloft. And just so you know, I will not be going up there with you in front of the most important people in the valley."

"I wouldn't dream of asking you to," Vetinari said. He brushed a few pretzel crumbs from his beard. "Tell me, do you practice a profession of some kind?" 

"Oh, I do a bit of this, a bit of that," Alexandra said evasively. 

"Mhm. A bit of this, a bit of that. Well paid work, is it?"

"I used to be something of a scribe," she said. "Most people here can't read or write so if there was something to write I wrote it and if there was something to read I read it. I charged two eggs to write a one-page letter and a string of sausages to read from the municipal ledger."

"Fair prices, surely," said Vetinari. "And how did you acquire an education beyond that of the typical rural maid?"

"That was my father. He thought girls were useless burdens on the family. So he sent me to Stind, to a girls school." Alexandra made a face as if she'd just eaten something terrible.  "I didn't like it there at all. Snobs to the last of  them."

"Ah. And so we discover the origin of your opinions on nobility," Vetinari said. "I'm quite surprised you spoke to me at all tonight."

"You looked so helpless trying to wriggle out of your armour. Reminded me of a salmon in a net." Alexandra pulled Vetinari's arm so that he'd stoop to allow her to speak in his ear. "I do love salmon, you know," she whispered. Her smile could have melted a tea kettle. 

This would be just about the time when, if this dimension was in the realm of animation, some kind of steam would rise up from Vetinari's collar. But since this was the real world, or at least, _a_ real world, Vetinari merely turned away from Alexandra in order to drink down a very long, very cold cup of water. It didn't really help. 

He switched to a Scumble Colada. They shared it as they watched the festival, the dancers who were just beginning the Barefoot-Monkey-on-a-Frozen-Ground, the cliques of people talking or playing Kat, a card game with a mathematical complexity not normally needed in rural life. A brawl broke out over a miscalculation of points. 

The barn stank of manure and tobacco and scumble and sweat. 

"Would you like to step out for a bit of fresh air?" Vetinari asked.

            Alexandra nodded gratefully, and they made their way out into the cold. As they strolled around the barn, their damp clothes stiffened in the wind. A few other couples were also out, huddled together for warmth.

            They stopped before a long ladder that leaned against the far side of the barn wall. In the moonlight they could just make out bits of hay jutting out of the opening near the roof. Alexandra folded her arms tightly across her chest and shivered.

            "I hope you're not too cold," Vetinari said.

            Alexandra looked at him with the same amused little smile that she had when she had first seen him. 

            "You're not fooling anyone, you know," she said.

            "No?" 

            "No. We come out here and I don't even have a coat and you bring me to the ladder that goes to the hayloft and make a comment about me being cold. I'm supposed to say yes, I'm freezing, and you, being oh so suave, say well, look at that, what a coincidence, the hayloft is right here and I'm sure it's warm up _there_. And I say hoo-ee, boil my britches, I reckon it _would_ be warm. And I'm just supposed to climb right up and…"

            He kissed her. 

            A minute later and without a word of protest, Alexandra climbed the ladder.

* Coconuts were not plentiful in that land of icy winters. Bootleggers had attempted to cultivate the common coconut palm, but to no avail. Fortunately, Mrs. Perspicacity Rottweiler's popular Clodhopper's Almanac predicted a twice yearly Rain of Coconuts -- and _it happened_. Mrs. Rottweiler had keen judgement when it came to weather. And drinks. The recipe for Scumble Colada can be found in Clodhopper's volume XIX, p. 123.


	5. The Lessons of Whiskey

+++Once again, pardon the strange formatting….+++

Chapter 5:  The lessons of whiskey

            After three hours and six complicated but unsuccessful spells, the wizards gathered in Ridcully's office.

"This will definitely work, Archchancellor." 

            "That's what you said earlier, Stibbons, about the Reverse Double-Flip Dimensional Jump," said Ridcully. "And Speckleton's Comonback Enhancer. Dean, did the Librarian give you anything useful?"

            The Dean had arrived in Ridcully's office out of breath. 

            "There seems to be…ah… no reverse spell…ah… for Croggly's Sub-dimensional Discombobulator, Archchancellor," he said. "Even when the…ah…Librarian did a search under recombobulation, nothing came up."

            The Lecturer in Recent Runes hustled into the office then, his face clouded with worry. "Archchancellor, I've looked and there seems to be no way the Ephebian Oops spell will help, and that usually fixes just about everything."

            Ponder Stibbons stepped out from behind the Dean's bulk.

            "Archchancellor, I really think my idea could work."

            The Chair of Indefinite Studies arrived with the Bursar trailing behind him, singing happily about bunnies.

            "No luck on my end, Archchancellor," said the Chair. "It's puzzling enough that the Patrician was sent to another dimension and nothing from there arrived here. But discombobulation is so unusual that there's nothing in my books that will help. I missed _dinner_ looking through them!"

            The other senior wizards paused in respectful silence. 

            "Well done, Chair," said Ridcully. "That shows dedication above and beyond the call of duty." He stared at the Chair for a moment. "However, that doesn't mean you're getting your croquet mallets back."

            "Blast," said the Chair.

            Ridcully got up from his desk and took the black knight piece out of a glass cabinet that otherwise contained creative fishing lures. He glanced at it, then examined it closer.

            "That's strange…"

            The wizards gathered around. It was plain to see that the face of Havelock Vetinari had changed. The fury that had been there before was gone.  

            "Looks happy," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "Maybe the other dimension agrees with him."

            "Don't be ridiculous, Runes," said the Dean. "He doesn't belong there. It can't agree with him."

            Ponder felt this was his moment.

            "I don't think the Patrician likes the dimension one way or the other," he said nervously. "I think he's probably…" he took a deep breath, "…not the Patrician anymore."

            The wizards stared at him.

            "What's young Stibbons going on about, Mustrum?" said the Dean.

            "What're you talking about, Stibbons?" said Ridcully.

            Ponder tried to think of a way to explain that the wizards would understand. 

            "Do you have a bottle, Archchancellor?"

            "Drinking? Now? You were about to explain something about the Patrician, Mister Stibbons!" said Ridcully.

            "I don't want a drink, sir, I need a visual aid."

            "You already have glasses," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Thick ones too for such a young man."

            "A visual aid, as in something I can use to show you what I'm about to say."

            "Just say it and you don't have to show us," said the Chair.

            Ponder, a patient young man in everything except what dealt directly with the senior faculty, was grateful when the Archchancellor fetched a half empty bottle of whiskey from his hat. 

            "Thank you, Archchancellor. This will do just fine." Ponder set the bottle on the desk, then placed a water glass next to it.

            "Observe the liquid in the bottle," he said.

            "That's whiskey, says so on the label," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

            "Right. And do you see what shape it is?"

            The wizards peered at the liquid, looked at one another, looked at Ponder, and shook their heads sadly. The boy was definitely coming unhinged.

            "It's whiskey, Mister Stibbons," Ridcully said gently. "It doesn't have a shape."

            "But it does, Archchancellor. Right now, isn't the whiskey holding the same shape as the bottle?"

            The wizards peered at the bottle again. There wasn't much whiskey left but there was enough to see that it carried the shape of the bottle.

            "He's right there," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

            Ponder sighed with relief. The first hurdle had been cleared. "Now," he opened the bottle and poured some whiskey into the glass," what does the whiskey look like now?"

            After a moment, the Senior Wrangler delivered the verdict.

            "It looks like whiskey."

            "What _shape_ is it?"

            "It doesn't…oh, yes. The glass, isn't it? It's shaped like the glass."

            "Yes, sir," Ponder said with relief. "Exactly! When the whiskey was in the bottle it was shaped like the bottle. When I poured it into the glass, it took the shape of the glass."

            The Dean nodded. "That's logical. That's what liquids do."

            "Yes, and people too," Ponder said.

            "You mean when I take a bath I take on the shape of the bath tub?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

            "No. I mean if you landed in another dimension where you weren't a wizard and no one thought you were a wizard, you might start to become someone else."

            "Who?" The Dean asked.

            Ponder threw up his hands. "I don't know! A…a carter, maybe."

            The Dean drew himself up to his very full stature. "Me? A carter? Never!"

            "But if you were dressed as a carter, everyone thought you were a carter and treated you like one, and you even started thinking like a carter with a carter's memories, that's what you'd become." In the face of the wizards' disbelief, Ponder felt his words needed a disclaimer. "I think," he added.

            "Ridiculous theory, Mister Stibbons," said Ridcully. "The Dean has always been averse to manual labor."

            Ponder went on like a suicidal deer that sees the headlights but can't get out of the road.

            "All I'm saying is that the Patrician was discombobulated, he landed in another dimension and, if we're to guess from the chess figure, he took on the identity of a knight. You can't be a knight and a Patrician at the same time, just like the whiskey can't have the shape of the bottle and the glass at the same time. They have similar qualities – Vetinari won't completely stop being Vetinari just like whiskey doesn't taste different when it's in a different shape – but he _will_ stop being a Patrician. He'll do things and think things he'd never do or think if he was his normal self. And if we don't bring him back soon, he may never be the same as he was…"

            The wizards ignored the drama of Ponder's last words. Instead, they discussed the theory for a while. There were definite faults in the logic, mainly having to do with humans being a lot more complex than whiskey. But whiskey tasted better with soda and cured colds when drunk hot with a slice of lemon. 

After partaking of a shot of the visual aid, the wizards were in a much better position to accept Ponder's words.

            "All right, Mister Stibbons," said Ridcully. "If we take your theory as true, how does that help us bring the Patrician back?"

            "I think we have to go to the Palace with the chess piece…"

            "Yes…"

            "To the spot where the Patrician was discombobulated…"

            "Yes…"

            "Find something that can act metaphorically as the identity of the Patrician…"

            "You lost me, there."

            Ponder took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

            "We need a thing that says 'Patrician.' I don't know, maybe one of his robes, or his coat of arms or his papers. We have to find something that symbolizes him."

            "We could talk to that bland young man that works for him," Ridcully said. "And once we have that?"

            "Then we do Croggly's spell again."

            The wizards gasped. "Can't be done!" the Dean said firmly. "It takes weeks of careful mental preparation, intensive study of--"

            "Dean, I did it all by myself on the fly," Ridcully said. "I'm sure we can manage it again if we all pull together as a team."

            The wizards argued for a while about the idea. Finally, Ridcully shouted for quiet.

            "I've decided. Nothing else has worked so we're going to give Mister Stibbons' theory a try. We're university men, after all. Experiment is in the spirit of inquiry. So… Off to the Palace! Somebody tell the Librarian to bring the crossbows."

            The wizards rushed out of the room. The Bursar stayed behind and finished off the whiskey all by himself.


	6. The Deal

Chapter 6: The Deal

            "Is this mine?" Vetinari asked.

            "I don't know, I can't see a thing," Alexandra said. "I think I just tried to put your trousers over my head."

            She giggled. In the darkness, she passed the trousers in the direction of Vetinari's voice.

            "Definitely mine," he said. "This must be your…" he paused, searching for vocabulary he did not normally need to use, "…bodice. It didn't fit me very well."

            "Let's just try not to get our stockings mixed up."

             After much fumbling in the darkness, which was incidentally largely what they'd been doing the past hour, Vetinari and Alexandra succeeded in dressing in the correct clothing. 

            "My hair's full of hay," Alexandra said.

            "It looks fine to me."

            "You can't see anything, silly."

            Vetinari smiled in the dark. It was very nearly a grin, though grinning was not something he was accustomed to, and he was certain this was the first time in his life anyone had dared call him silly. It didn't seem to matter. Alexandra could have called him an imbecile son of a rabid titmouse and he would have grinned just the same. 

            The headache was gone, the confusion of memories in his mind had stopped, and he felt he didn't have a care in the world. When he'd ridden out from Tallstone, he'd grumbled at being sent to the country in the middle of winter, especially when there were matters to attend to at court. But now, it didn't seem like such a bad idea. Clean country air did a body good. Nice country ladies did even better. 

            He groped in front of him and finally found the hayloft door. He lifted it and moonlight spilled inside. They'd discovered that it was a very big loft indeed, separated into two sections. The one they were in was cut off from the festivities on the other side by a solid wall of cubical hay bales.

            "Your hair _is_ full of hay," he said.

            Alexandra pulled out some straws and released them to the wind. 

"I'll be a laughingstock," she said. "There are people from six towns down there and they're all going to know who was in the hayloft tonight." 

She caught Vetinari's eye but it was too dark for him to see her blush. "I don't do this every year, you know," she said.

            "Neither do I. Shall we?"

            When they reached the ground, Alexandra looked at the sky. 

            "Almost dawn," she said. "We should go back to the festival. Mr. Smiggins will want to meet you."

            The barn was just as hot as before, and the people still danced and talked and played in expectation that the lottery would soon begin. Alexandra led Vetinari to a table where several older, pot-bellied men relaxed in their chairs, scumble mugs in hand. 

            "This is Mr. Smiggins, he's mayor of Ogden, the biggest town in the valley," she said. "Mr. Smiggins, here's our knight for the evening." 

            A man with a crown of wispy white hair got to his feet with some difficulty and stuck out a meaty hand.

            "Welcome, milord. I see you've met our Alexandra. We are proud of her, yes indeed." He paused to take aim at a wooden spittoon at the foot of the table and let fly. There was a thump as the wad hit the target. "What was I saying? Oh, yes. Our Alexandra." He absently removed a piece of hay from her hair. "She's the first, count 'em, _first_ woman mayor in the kingdom. The voters in Taylorsville are a smart bunch." 

            Vetinari shot a questioning glance at Alexandra, who shrugged her shoulders. 

            "The king declared women can't vote," she said. "He never said anything about standing for election."

            Something deep, deep inside of Vetinari recoiled at the word _election_. When he heard it, it was like fingernails dragged across a blackboard inside his skull. He couldn't quite remember why he felt that way about the word. And about the related term that arose right along with it, threatening to escape on his tongue…

            "I was not aware that the towns of the valley practised…" he paused, the fingernails in his mind at the ready again, "…_democracy_." He couldn't have sounded more disgusted if he'd been talking of cannibalism.

            "Oh, yes, milord" said Mr. Smiggins. "It's the ancient right of the valley towns to elect our leaders. Every five years new." He grinned. "The loser of the run-off gets a free chicken."

            "How…civic." Vetinari turned to Alexandra, who was looking rather sheepish. "If I recall correctly, you defined your work as 'doing a little bit of this, a little bit of that,'" he said.

            "It's true. I have to keep the records up to date, meet with the council, get the hen rotation figured out and we're even thinking of putting a stop sign on Main Street. On market day we have two-way traffic and practically a bloody war between the mules."

            "Why didn't you just tell me you were the mayor of Taylorsville?" Vetinari asked.

            "It always seems to put men off," Alexandra said, colour rising in her face. "Around here, a woman who can carry a two-by-four across her shoulders is more valuable than one who can count without needing her fingers."

            Vetinari nodded thoughtfully. "Ah yes, the loneliness of leadership," he said. "I've often thought a leader is much like a lighthouse, a single tower standing guard on the coast where waves of trouble lap against it. Yet it remains steadfast, its light a warning and perhaps salvation for ships that otherwise sail blindly into the rocks."

            Alexandra and Mr. Smiggins exchanged a look. It was a silent agreement to stay respectful and polite in the face of Vetinari's rather stretched metaphor.

            "Well said, milord," said Mr. Smiggins. He had the presence of mind to cover his mouth with his hand before he smiled. Vetinari chose to pretend he didn't see it.

            "Not to change the subject," Alexandra began, in words that made clear this was just what she was about to do, "but do you have any special instructions for His Lordship, Mr. Smiggins?" 

            "Not really. You've done lotteries before, haven't you, milord?"

            "Certainly," said Vetinari. "I take it my task will be merely to draw the slips and announce the names." 

            "And congratulate the winners," said Mr. Smiggins.

            "Of course. A hand shake, a pat on the back—"

            "—a kiss for the women," Alexandra added. "They like telling their friends they kissed a knight. We really thought we'd have trouble getting another one after the unfortunate incident from last year."

            The wisp of a rumour floated into Vetinari's memory. Something about last year's knight and a particularly enthusiastic, and decidedly _large_ woman who'd won a year's free rat catching.

            "I trust there will be someone around to support me if I need it," he said. "Literally."

            Mr. Smiggins waved a hand. "Don't you worry, milord. Winners from the last five years aren't allowed in the draw." He took out a pocket watch. "I think we'll be settin' up. Won't be long now, milord." He hustled off.

            Vetinari gazed a long time at Alexandra. 

            "Well, well, well. A mayor," he said.

            "That's right. I was the only one in the last election who could write her own name."

            "You don't strike me as a municipal leader."

            Alexandra folded her arms and looked at him with amusement.

            "What are municipal leaders supposed to be like, then -- aside from lighthouses?" she asked.

            "They drink less than you, I believe," said Vetinari, smiling. "And dance worse. And are perhaps not so… _friendly_."

            "Everybody in the valley drinks a lot and dances well. It's cultural," said Alexandra, returning the smile. "As for friendliness, well, you just caught me in a good mood."

            "I'm astonished at my luck."

            "I bet you are."

            The  musicians struck up Savelli's Prelude and Fugue, usually a staid song that Vetinari in another dimension would have thoroughly enjoyed in the silence of his room, the music captured on paper and uncontaminated by the addition of things so unnecessary as instruments and musicians. But this was Prelude and Fugue as Savelli never intended; one of the valley banjoists had rearranged it for fiddle and banjo with scumble jug accompaniment. The toe-tapping result was locally dubbed the Swamp Rat Blues. It really was an improvement over the original.

            Alexandra, never able to keep still around a good beat, began to sway.

            Vetinari watched Mr. Smiggins and a young man with a grin like an over ripe jack-o-lantern carry a table onto the center of the dance floor. They covered it with a white cloth and decked it with a stack of envelopes and ten shot glasses.

            "What is the grand prize in the Lottery?" Vetinari asked.

            "Trip for two to Tallstone," Alexandra said over the music.

"Really?" 

Mr. Smiggins carefully set a glass bowl filled with paper slips onto the table.

"I take it as a mayor, you aren't allowed to enter the draw," said Vetinari. 

            Alexandra nodded. "That's right."

            "It's unfortunate. No free trip to Tallstone for you."

            "My bad luck." Alexandra's hand tapped her hip to the beat of the music. 

            "Well. Perhaps you'll get there some other way," Vetinari said.

            Alexandra turned her eyes from the band and looked at him curiously.

"What do you mean?"

            "Oh, I assumed that at some point, civic leaders of every stripe deserve a vacation."

            "Do they?"

            "Certainly. Once every five or ten years shouldn't hurt." Vetinari gazed up at the rafters of the barn. The pigeons fluttered more than usual due to their perches vibrating from the noise of the festival. "When does your term of office end, Alexandra?" he asked.

            "A year from this summer."

            "Ah. Perhaps that would be a perfect time to relax a bit. See the sites the kingdom has to offer."

            Alexandra followed his gaze, but couldn't figure out what was so interesting about the rafters. She waited for Vetinari to get to the point.

            "And yet," he said finally, "I can't help but guess that there is far less for you to do in winter in your roll as municipal leader."

            Alexandra pressed her lips together to keep back the little laugh that threatened to escape.  "True enough," she managed to say. 

Vetinari nodded, a faraway look in his eye.      "Winter is, in fact, a time when the absence of the mayor for, say…a few weeks would surely be forgiven by the good people of Taylorsville," he said. "Especially if the mayor used that time to—"

            "Observe the municipal systems of other towns?" Alexandra suggested. "And even…cities?"

            "Precisely. It would be time well spent."

            A cheer welled up from the people near the dance floor and caught on in a wave until everyone except Alexandra and Vetinari were clapping ecstatically. 

            "We're about to start," she said over the noise. "You better get out there."

            "We'll continue this conversation afterward?"

            Alexandra grasped Vetinari's hand and shook it like a business deal had just been reached. "Go on," she said. "They're waiting."


	7. Hats, Chains and Staffs with Knobs on

Chapter 7: Hats, Chains and Staffs with Knobs on

            Truth be told, the Patrician's world had been a relatively small one. As supreme ruler of Ankh-Morpork, the majority of his 18-hour work days were spent in one of three places: in the Oblong Office (with his paperwork), in a chair at the steps of the throne room (with his paperwork), or in a chair in the Palace garden (with his paperwork, weather permitting).

            Sometimes he sat through endless dinners at a university function or guild event. Sometimes he made an official visit to the city's entrepreneurs, as he did when he stopped in at the offices of the Times to see the new printing press. As for vacations, his secret mission to Klatch during the Leshp crisis had been the closest thing he'd had to a holiday in 20 years.

These days, the Patrician even curbed his old habit of slipping out of the Palace and roaming the streets in disguise to check up on his agents and maintain a feel for the city. There was always so much to do in his office, so many appointments, so much paper. And his clerks grew nervous if they didn't know where he was.

            Thus, the abject panic on the face of Rufus Drumknott.

            His Lordship had been missing for four hours. _Four hours_. Drumknott had worked at the palace for seven years and he couldn't recall the Patrician being gone longer than an hour or two without at least a warning to him. Ever. 

"Drumknott," the Patrician had said before his journey to Klatch, "I'll be unavailable for…oh…the next several days. I don't want to alarm the staff so I'd appreciate if you could rumple the bed clothes in my room a bit at night. The new chambermaid gets upset if there's nothing for her to do. And of course, suffer no speculation on my whereabouts. Is that clear?"

It _had_ been clear because Drumknott had risen to the post of private secretary by fulfilling his master's wishes to the letter, and even anticipating them. He prided himself on the talent.

So where was he? 

When Drumknott had looked in on the parlour after Ridcully and the Librarian had left, he'd searched for a sensible reason for his Lordship's absence. Maybe they'd just missed each other in the halls. Maybe the Patrician really did slip out for a little nap; gods knew he didn't sleep much at night. It was unlikely, granted, but possible.  Drumknott was also the first to admit he didn't know much about the secret passageways that littered the old Palace. Perhaps the Patrician had chosen to move about behind the scenes.

            But the minutes had turned to hours. With reluctance, Drumknott had canceled appointment after appointment in the Patrician's schedule. The secretary to the Istanzian ambassador and the already imprisoned representatives of the fledgling Guild of Street Entertainers had been immensely relieved.

            Drumknott returned to the Patrician's parlour for one more look. It was the act of a desperate man at the end of his resources. The parlour was empty. Wuffles hadn't even entered again after the…disappearance. Drumknott sank onto the sofa. There was nothing for it. He'd have to call in Vimes. He hoped the man was capable of a quiet investigation.

            A commotion in the hallway sparked a small hope in the rather neglected heart of the clerk. He got eagerly to his feet just as the parlour door burst open.

            "Ah, there you are!" 

Mustrum Ridcully bounded inside, followed by the senior faculty of Unseen University, staffs in hand. Drumknott stared at the Librarian, who held two very large, very deadly looking crossbows.

            "What is this all about?" he demanded.

            The wizards spread out. The Dean began poking around in a lacquer cabinet, the Lecturer in Recent Runes tried the drawers of a side table and the Chair of Indefinite Studies helped himself to a bowl of candied chestnuts. The Senior Wrangler tapped the walls for secret passages and Ponder Stibbons closely examined the Ponce Featherhew Day chess board. The Bursar had caught up with them and now stretched out on the couch. Wherever they were, wizards always made themselves at home.

            Ridcully put an arm around Drumknott's shoulders and steered  him in the direction of Ponder.

            "We've got a few questions to ask, Mister…er…"

            "Drumknott," said Drumknott with a glare.

            "Yes, good man," said Ridcully. "You've worked for the Patrician awhile, have you?"

            "Don't touch that!" Drumknott rushed to the Dean and pulled the Patrician's crystal pyramidal paperweight out of his hand. 

            "I was just looking," said the Dean irritably. "No need to get short." As soon as Drumknott had replaced the paperweight in a cabinet drawer, the Dean continued his search for Anything Interesting.

            "Fascinating chess pieces, Archchancellor," Ponder said as he held one up to the light of the window. "Real bone of the Howandaland Sloth. It's been extinct for 200 years, you know."

            "Very interesting, Mr. Stibbons. But shouldn't we be…What's that Drumknott fellow doing now?"

            The clerk had sprinted over to the Lecturer in Recent Runes and snatched away a stack of papers the wizard had found in a table drawer.  

            "These are the Patrician's private things," Drumknott said, shoving the papers back in the drawer and slamming it closed. He took a deep breath in preparation for a general announcement. "From now on, no one is to touch anything!"

            The wizards paused. 

            "That's not very hospitable of you, young man," said the Senior Wrangler.

            Drumknott had had a trying few hours. Savelli's Prelude and Fugue (original version) could have been played on his nerves. He remembered Wu Zang's Way of the Mongoose, which he practised in secret at night. He closed his eyes, took several deep, long breaths and concentrated on pushing his anxiety down to his knees and out through the floor. 

            The wizards watched this meditation in silence for a few moments. The Chair of Indefinite Studies took the opportunity to fill his pockets with candied chestnuts. They were rather good, and Mrs. Whitlow might like them.

            Drumknott opened his eyes. The wizards were still there. Damn.

            "Would someone please tell me what you are doing here?" he said. 

            "I was trying to get to that," said Ridcully. "Mister Stibbons, would you like to conduct the interview?"

            Ponder looked on Drumknott with some pity. They were close to the same age and worked for much older men who were difficult to deal with even on good days. 

            "We know what's happened to the Patrician," Ponder said.

            "I assumed that already. Something magical, I suppose?"

            "An accident," Ponder said. "We've come to set it all straight but we need your help."

            Drumknott nodded. "If His Lordship is gone much longer, I'll have to call in the Watch."

            "That would not be…aha…much help," Ridcully said smugly. Ponder's scorching glance erased the look on the Archchancellor's face. Ridcully cleared his throat. "Right. No need for the Watch. The Patrician will be back in a jiffy. Mister Stibbons?"

            "Yes. Er. We need a bit of information," said Ponder. "We need to know…how do I explain this…if there's anything around here particularly…_patricianesque_."

            "I don't get your meaning," said Drumknott.

            "Anything that has a close association with the Patrician," said Ponder. "Like a…municipal seal that only he can use."

            "Or one of those gold chains made out of coins the guild presidents wear in the parades," said the Senior Wrangler. 

            "Does he have a staff?" asked the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "There's no symbol of power better than a good, thick, long staff. Preferably with a knob on the end."

            The other wizards mentally thanked the gods that it was unheard of to touch the staff of another wizard. At the moment, they weren't all that happy about touching their own.

            Drumknott shrugged. "His Lordship doesn't bother with symbols of office."

            "There has to be something," said Ponder. "Maybe something all of the Patricians have had. A special sword?"

            "No," said Drumknott.

            "A pointy hat?" said the Dean.

            "No."

            "Ook?" suggested the Librarian.

            "I don't know what he just said," said Drumknott.

            "I think he asked if the Patrician has a cloak of finest vermine," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. The Librarian grinned and nodded.

            "Certainly not," said Drumknott.

            Ponder looked around the room helplessly. The Patrician had to have something. Symbols were…they were part of every public office. A wizard would rather be seen naked than without his pointy hat. He didn't know much about witches, but assumed – incorrectly as it turns out – that they felt roughly the same way. Kings had crowns and cloaks and, for some mysterious reason, orbs. Priests had special robes and wore symbols dangling from their necks. 

            When it came right down to it, how did people know that Vetinari was the Patrician?

            "How do they know?" Ponder repeated out loud.

            "How does who know what?" asked Drumknott.

            "How do people know that Lord Vetinari is the Patrician?"

            Drumknott regarded Ponder as if the wizard had shown up wearing a duck on his head. "He just _looks_ at them, of course."

            Ponder stared at Drumknott, a smile slowly blossoming on his face. 

            "Archchancellor," he said, "I think I have the solution. If you could get the others ready for the spell, I'll go with Mr. Drumknott to fetch the… item."


	8. Croggly's Redux

Chapter 8: Croggly's Redux

            Several hundred people watched with expectation as Vetinari opened the first envelope. It was far from silent in the barn. Somebody always coughed. Or cleared his throat. Or whispered to his neighbor. Enough low-level noise pervaded the barn that Vetinari had to speak louder than he liked.

            He held up a card and announced: "Tenth through sixth prizes: Family gift certificates to Hetty Bullweavel's Diner." He paused, eyebrows raised. "'Best grits this side of the Valley.'"

            The audience clapped with approval. Hetty's grits were the best in the _kingdom_, if you asked them. If you asked Vetinari, the best kind of grits were the kind you didn't have to eat. He set the card aside and reached into the bowl. The crowd held its breath.

            "Tenth prize: Propriety Smith."

            A sob erupted from the crowd, and the people parted as a woman with blue ribbons in her hair trotted up to the dance floor and threw her arms around Vetinari.

            "I never won nothin' in my _life_," she cried. She planted a wet kiss on Vetinari's cheek,   accepted the gift certificate and shook Mr. Smiggins' hand. The crowd applauded at Propriety's appropriate show of gratefulness. These were Hetty's grits, after all.

            Propriety drank her complimentary shot of scumble and returned to the crowd, happily clutching her prize.

            Her kiss had been especially sloppy, and Vetinari had to repress the urge to wipe his face. Instead, he reached into the bowl again and hoped the name on the paper would not be that of a female.

            With a sigh, he announced: "Sally Lambertson." 

* * *

            Ponder and Drumknott returned to the Patrician's parlour just as the wizards finished clearing the center of the room of furniture. The Bursar had refused to leave the couch and had giggled when the wizards hauled it -- with a good deal of bickering and complaints about  old age and bad backs -- out of the way. Now only Ridcully's chess figure stood in the middle of the carpet. 

            Drumknott carried something large covered with a cloth. "Where should I put this?" he said.

            "Senior Wrangler, could you give us a hand?" said Ponder.

            Drumknott eased the item into the Senior Wrangler's arms. The wizard held it for a moment, then set it on the floor.

            "It's a bit heavy, whatever it is," he said.

            "When I give you the signal, just hold it up, all right, sir?" Ponder said.

            "Clear as pie, Stibbons."

            Ridcully reached over to pull off the cloth but Ponder stepped in front of him.

            "Please, Archchancellor! Everything will be clear when the Patrician returns."

            "You're not even going to tell your Archchancellor what it is?"

            "There's not really time to explain, sir," said Ponder.

            Ridcully irritably tapped his staff on the floor. "Do I sense a whiff of drama, Mr. Stibbons?" Ridcully normally approved of drama, within limits, as long as he was the star. 

            "Sorry, Archchancellor," said Ponder, "but I really don't think we have much time."

            "Right. We'll just have to trust your judgement, and blame you if something goes wrong," Ridcully said. "Now, then, let's get started." He pointed at Drumknott. "You might want to wait outside unless you want to spend the next few days in another dimension yourself."

            "No, sir." Drumknott had briefly considered staying for the spell, but Ridcully had a convincing counter argument. He backed out of the room and shut the door.

            The wizards gathered in a wide circle, staffs in hand. They each had that sensation of watery-knee'd vertigo you get when you look down at the pool before jumping off the high dive. No one had ever reversed Croggly's Sub-dimensional Discombobulator. They didn't quite know what would happen when they tried. The consequences, they hoped, would not involve the Dungeon Dimensions.*

            "Take it away, Dean," Ridcully said. 

            The Dean cleared his throat. This, of course, was his moment. If Ridcully could do Croggly's spell all by himself, the Dean could manage it with the backing of the senior faculty. In fact, he reasoned, he could manage it _better_. There was a twinkle in his eye.

            He started to chant.

* * *

            All of the winners of Hetty Bullweavel's gift certificates had been women. Vetinari reflected that he had never been kissed by so many women in one night. The age range had also been a novelty. Sarah Diggers had been a teenager with pale hair and a paler face, while Mrs. Marianne Loon, who happened to be the woman who first met him when he entered the barn, had been in her 70s and a surprisingly functional drunk.

            The Lottery moved on to the fourth and fifth prizes, a month's supply of scumble. The crowd applauded at the announcement despite the fact that many of its members had succeeded in drinking a month's supply in the past few hours alone. 

            Vetinari drew a slip from the glass bowl.

            "Septimus Peterson," he said.

            A young man with long hair fluttered up to the dance floor. Vetinari hoped a hand shake would be sufficient.   

***

            The chess piece rose up from the carpet, its black sheen now hidden by an octarine glow. The wizards bent their minds to it. The knight was all they had to help them find the Patrician. 

            Ridcully had merely sent Lord Vetinari into a random dimension. It was a bigger trick to find out _which one_, target the Patrician and bring him back to the Palace in one piece. 

            The Archchancellor had used up his magic for the day so he stood on the sidelines and acted like a cross between a football coach and a cheerleader.

            "Step on it, gentlemen!" he said. "_Work_ the spell!"

The rest of the wizards concentrated. The chess piece began to turn, then spun faster and faster until all they could see was a ball of octarine that engulfed the piece and slowly grew larger. 

"That's the way!" Ridcully said over the thaumic echoes that began booming in the parlour. "You're getting through!"

            The air thickened and tasted like tin.  

The Librarian's red fur stood on end but he still clutched the crossbows. Ridcully's orders.

* * *

            Vetinari moved on to third prize, a pair of goats named Arthur and Alice, kindly donated by the Lob family.

            He drew the slip, glanced at the name, and prepared himself for another attack of joy from an ecstatic Lottery winner:

            "Patricia Rain," he announced.

            As the cries of a woman drifted in from the back of the barn, Vetinari caught sight of Alexandra. She stood on the edge of the crowd, laughing at him silently.

            Patricia Rain burst onto the dance floor. She took the prize card from Vetinari just as he felt… as if a shower of molten metal had been poured over his head and was seeping through his body. All at once, the barn was far too hot. He grasped the edge of the table and tried to stay on his feet.

* * *

            "More power!" shouted Ridcully.

            The thaumic waves swirled around the parlour, whipping the curtains into a wild dance. The more prim wizards – meaning all of them – modestly held down their robes in case anyone got a look at their undies. 

            A gray fog materialized out of the octarine ball. It grew bigger until the wizards could just make out the contours of a landscape.

            "We've got it!" the Dean cried over the thaumic noise.

            The window into the other dimension stopped growing, but the fog began to clear. They saw snowy fields, an icy road and the massive barn with its red and green lanterns. The wizards followed the birds eye view of the spell into the barn, where a mass of people applauded. In the center was a tall, thin figure in dark green.

            "Who's that?" shouted the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

            "That's him, isn't it, Mister Stibbons?" said Ridcully.

            "Must be, Archchancellor, or the spell wouldn't focus on him."

            "What's he dressed like that for?" said the Dean. "I thought he was supposed to be a knight." 

            "Maybe the armour was too heavy," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies over the noise. "I heard that a full suit of armour can weigh as much as—"

            A low buzzing cut off his words. The wizards looked around warily. The buzzing was usually associated with unpleasant Creatures from dimensions the wizards did not want to visit or receive visitors from. The Creatures always honed in on high discharges of magic.

            "All right, gentleman," said Ridcully. "Time's up. Let's bring him back."

***

            Vetinari had the feeling that he moved through warm marmalade as he announced the winner of second prize, a new plow. His breathing was short and through his eyes, the barn looked to be under a heat haze that rippled like a fata morgana. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. Alexandra appeared beside him, a cup of water in her hands.

            "Are you all right?" she asked.

***

            The wizards gave one last burst of concentration on the figure in the dimensional window. Vetinari came through at first only as a transparent form with fuzzy, octarine edges. The form quickly changed into a reflection mirrored in a thousand different images that stretched into a thousand different dimensions. The images wavered, dissolved, and a single, transparent Vetinari finally floated in the center of the circle. He moved as if reaching out for something.

His transparency turned to static, then to a flickering that made it seem like Vetinari wore the armour of a knight and the robes of the Patrician one after the other, and then at the same time. In those moments of uncertainty, the wizards feared the link between the two dimensions could collapse with Vetinari still in between.  

            Finally, the armour disappeared and the image of the Patrician solidified inside an octarine cocoon. The shell rapidly faded and then dissolved altogether. In a moment Vetinari was there, standing in front of a shrinking dimensional window. 

            "We got him!" cried Ridcully. "We—" His cry of triumph died.

            As the dimensional window wavered, a long, black tentacle slipped out, caught Vetinari's leg and pulled him off his feet. A misshapen head with several fly-like eyes peered out from the window. Its buzzing overwhelmed the roar of the spell's thaumic noise.

The wizards prepared for the massive task of shifting from Croggly's spell to dealing with the Creature.

            "Fireballs, gentlemen!" said the Dean over the buzzing. "Ready? Aim! Toast 'm!"

            The Dean, the Lecturer in Recent Runes and the Chair of Indefinite Studies let balls of octarine fire shoot from their staffs. When they burst into the Creature, it  screamed, a sound on the edge of hearing as unbearable as a high-pitched siren. It released Vetinari and slithered back to whatever dimension it came from. 

            Lord Vetinari struggled to his feet and stared around in shock. In the haze of the dimensional window, recently vacated by the Creature, he could just make out the small red and green figures in the barn. Only Ponder Stibbons guessed what he was about to do.

            "Grab him!" he shouted. 

The wizards leapt as Lord Vetinari jumped toward the window. He landed heavily under a thousand pounds of wizard, his face in the carpet as the window shrank to the size of a dinner plate and winked out.

* The Dungeon Dimensions are full of dreadful things. Best not to talk about it.


	9. Something Patricianesque

Chapter 9: Something Patricianesque

            "Are you all right, your Lordship?" Ponder asked. He was rather sorry about the group tackle. 

Lord Vetinari staggered to his feet. He stared in speechless fury and confusion at the place where the dimensional window had been.

            When the wizards had straightened their robes and patted down their beards, Ridcully applauded.

            "Jolly good show, gentlemen! One for the record books, eh?"

            The wizards shook hands and congratulated one another. They had reversed Croggly's Sub-dimensional Discombobulator. It would go down in wizarding history and be told and retold over countless university dinners. The Dean even had the fleeting urge to hold a lecture on the subject.

Only Ponder looked uneasy.

"Why the long face, Mister Stibbons?" said Ridcully. "It worked!"

"Not completely, Archchancellor…"

The wizards seemed to remember that the Patrician was in the room, and that it was they, or at least one of them, who had started the multi-dimensional antics to begin with. They peered over at the Librarian, who wasn't taking his crossbow duties very seriously. He'd selected the silver tipped bolt but hadn't winded it yet.

Lord Vetinari turned on the wizards.

"Send me back at once," he said.

"Your Lordship, maybe we should explain what's happened to you—" Ponder began.

"No." Lord Vetinari pointed to where the dimensional window had been. "Open the…whatever that was…and send me back. Immediately."

"But your Lordship—"

"I order you."

"But—"

"I _said_ that was an order!" Lord Vetinari reached to his left side and was surprised when his hand came up with nothing. There was no sword.

He noticed then that he wasn't wearing armour, and certainly not the green and red suit. Only a simple black robe of good material. 

The wizards kept a respectful distance from him. After some thought, Lord Vetinari decided they looked familiar, especially the thick-chested one with the fishing tackle hanging from his hat.

He pointed at Ridcully. "You…" He wavered. A memory drifted in, one that Lord Vetinari was sure he wouldn't be pleased about, but it was all too hazy for details. "I've seen you before," he said. He glared at the others. "I've seen all of you…"

"You've been through a sub-dimensional discombobulation, your Lordship," said Ponder. "You're a little confused right now but you should get your memory back fairly quickly."

The wizards stood aside as Lord Vetinari began pacing around the room. He was clearly no longer in the barn. It was someone's parlour, obviously. It had the typical parlour things: red paisley curtains, lamps with stained glass shades, a couch containing an inanely grinning man in the same robes as the others, a few tables, a lacquered cabinet, the armchair where he read sometimes in the morning, the candied chestnuts he kept out for the maids, and… He stopped before the little dog bed in the corner. It smelled…familiar. 

Vetinari strode over to the wizards. They took a collective step backward. 

"I don't remember anything here," he said. The lie shot a bolt of pain through his head. He ignored it. "This game has gone on long enough. Return me to the valley." 

"Senior Wrangler, now!" Ponder hissed.

The Senior Wrangler had set the item Drumknott had given them aside during the spell. He inched his way toward it, but Lord Vetinari was quicker on the uptake. He swooped down and lifted it up.

"Some other magic?" he said, glaring at the wizards.

"Er…your Lordship…" Ponder began.

Lord Vetinari whipped the cloth away. 

He stared…at himself. 

Ponder had at first thought that a mirror would do the trick. If people knew the Patrician by that special _look_ Vetinari had perfected, then he could give himself some of his own medicine, so to speak. But it had occurred to Ponder that a Vetinari that didn't remember he was the Patrician probably wouldn't have the look anymore. It was a Patrician look after all, and it was likely lost along with the Patrician's memories.

And so, he'd found this. 

The painting had been done in the first years after Vetinari took power. He held Wuffles in all of his portraits, and in this one, the terrier looked at the end of the prime of his malevolent life. Not so his master. Vetinari in the painting was not yet middle aged. His hair line was less peaked, his face less thin, his skin less creased with wear. But the intensity of his eyes, peering out from under the black devil's arches of his eyebrows, had not changed. 

Lord Vetinari sat heavily in a chair and stared at the painting. He touched his beard. He ran a finger along one eye brow and made the same motion on the canvas. From a safe distance, the wizards watched an invisible but significant transformation. Calm descended on Vetinari. The anger and uncertainty dissolved, replaced by… Ponder would have called it Something Patricianesque.

Vetinari slowly stood up. "Where's my stick?" he asked. 

The Librarian lumbered up holding an ebony cane with a silver top. Lord Vetinari took it and eyed the crossbow in the Librarian's other hand.

"A weapon in my parlour… Librarian?" He raised an eyebrow and the Librarian shrugged his shoulders, giving the Patrician a sheepish grin. He set the crossbow aside.

The Patrician went back to stand before the assembled wizardry. Their names, or at least titles, tumbled back into his memory. He turned his cool gaze on Ridcully.

"You…Archchancellor," he said, "have much to answer for."

"It was just a bit of mischief, your Lordship," said Ridcully. 

"Mischief? Or a practical joke, perhaps? Aha aha."

Ridcully looked to the other wizards for support. They had suddenly become very interested in their fingernails.

The Patrician stared at Ridcully a moment longer than was comfortable, and then turned to Ponder.

"What is this… sub-dimensional discom--"

"—discombobulator, yes your Lordship," said Ponder. "You were sent to another dimension and took on the identity of someone else. A knight, I would guess." He held up one of the Ponce Featherhew Day chess pieces.

"Correct, Mister…Stibbons. I am…_was_…a knight. I seem to remember quite a lot about it."

"The memories will go away rather quickly, your Lordship. They're not really yours but the knight's. When the effects of the discombobulation wear off, you probably won't remember the other dimension at all."

The Patrician studied Ponder's face. "I'll forget everything?"

"I think so. Maybe you'll have peculiar dreams every once in awhile. But on the whole, yes."

The Patrician nodded and the wizards watched with some concern as he stood completely still and closed his eyes. In his mind he held two sets of memories: those of the Patrician, which flooded back as if a dam had broken, and those of the knight, which had begun to dissolve and scatter like dust. He remembered the kingdom and its coldness, the noise of the festival, the whirl of dancers, the taste of scumble, but all of these were already losing their sharpness. His clearest memories had distilled into a single image…

He opened his eyes.

"I'm inclined to overlook your bit of mischief, Archchancellor," he said.

"You are?"

"This once."

"I can assure you, your Lordship, it'll never happen again."

"Never is an extreme word, Archchancellor," said the Patrician. "I never say never. It can lead to embarrassment when never comes. And now, gentlemen, I would like you all to leave my Palace."

The wizards didn't move for a moment. They'd thought they wouldn't get out without some kind of a fight. Ridcully cleared his throat.

"I'm glad you didn't take it so hard, your Lordship," he said.  

            The Patrician stared at him and said nothing. After a moment, Ridcully motioned for the wizards to follow him out. The Librarian fetched the Bursar, who waved cheerfully at the Patrician and helped the orang-utan carry out the crossbows. 

Lord Vetinari lifted the painting onto a table and leaned it against the wall. He was gazing at it when a soft knock came to the door.

            Drumknott appeared, his face awash with relief.

            "Ah, Drumknott," the Patrician said. "Please do send my apologies to the secretary of the Istanzian ambassador and reschedule our meeting for…" he thought a moment. "…first thing tomorrow morning. Have the street entertainers been enjoying their accommodations?"

            "No, sir."

            "Capitol. I'll see them later tonight."

            "Sir, may I ask a question?"

            "Of course."

            "What happened, exactly?"

The Patrician smiled a smile that made Drumknott's nerves twang with alarm. It wasn't _his_ kind of smile. It was full of honest warmth and even…fun.

            "Think of it as a short but highly instructive holiday," said the Patrician. "Civic leaders of every stripe deserve a vacation sometime." 

            "Do they?" 

            The Patrician sighed. His smile faded and Drumknott relaxed a little.

            "Will you punish the wizards?" he asked.

            Lord Vetinari didn't answer at first. He looked as if something had just occurred to him. 

            "Hm? Ah…no," he said. "Magical accidents do happen and I certainly can't go around punishing everyone who makes a little mistake. Drumknott, you appear to be standing there with your mouth open. Something wrong?"

            "I just thought you'd be—"

            "Angry? No. You've surely heard that old saying 'You catch more flies with honey,' hm?"

            "Well yes, but—"

            "I plan to be especially sweet to the wizards. At least for the time being."

            The Patrician smiled, and it was the type of smile Drumknott knew. It was a smile that said, _don't_ read my lips, read my mind. If you can. The clerk felt his blood pressure drop to a safe level. If the Patrician started actually saying what he meant, what would the world come to?

Drumknott looked at the painting.

            "I found that for the wizards," he said. "They wanted something that symbolized you for the spell."

            "It certainly does jog the memory, Drumknott," said the Patrician. "I remember the day it was painted…" His mind seemed to drift off again. Drumknott watched him with concern, until the faraway look faded from Lord Vetinari's eyes. 

"That reminds me," said the Patrician. "I don't want to be disturbed for the next few hours, is that clear?"

            "Yes, sir."

            Once Drumknott had left, the Patrician walked quickly to the Oblong Office. He locked the door behind him, took a key out of a drawer of his desk and touched a certain piece of the wall, which swung open. Lord Vetinari stepped into the secret passage.

            He sped up as he passed through old corridors and up dusty stairwells. Every once in a while he hop-scotched on certain floor tiles or touched certain parts of the wall. He reached a door, which he unlocked. He pushed it open carefully.


	10. The Souvenir

Chapter 9: The Souvenir 

            The caution wasn't needed. Unlike most times when the Patrician visited Leonard of Quirm, there were absolutely no new inventions bubbling, puttering or exploding. Lord Vetinari found Leonard sitting quietly at a table mashing something with a pestle in a bowl.

            "Your Lordship! Just in time to see the fruits of my labours. Look here –" 

            "Leonard, I really don't have—"

            "--I dried out and ground down the Klatchian fire peppers you sent up last week." Leonard dumped the contents of the bowl into a machine that looked rather like a post box and turned several knobs. After a moment, a faint bubbling could be heard. "When the peppers are fully heated, their essence integrates with the mechanism I've designed here and – theoretically – will heat this room without the need for wood or coal. I call it a Heat-Up-A-Room-With-Hot-Peppers-Apparatus. Think of the possibilities for alternative energy, my lord!"

            "But Leonard, the production and import costs of the peppers put them at 10 times the price of coal."

            Leonard held up a finger. "Ah, yes. But the peppers are far more efficient. They burn cleanly, heat the home and form an integral part of the family meal." He bit into a leftover pepper, and tears sprang into his eyes.

            The Patrician sighed.

            "Leonard, please, it's very urgent that we –"

            And then the box exploded. 

The Patrician was accustomed to this sort of thing and had his favorite hiding place behind one of Leonard's large unfinished canvases that Lord Vetinari had taken the precaution to back with a six inch oak plank. After the clanging of falling bits of metal had subsided, he ventured a look. Leonard was stooped over the remains of the Hot Pepper Apparatus, licking his fingers thoughtfully. 

            "Concentration was too high, I think. I must make a note of that..."

            "Leonard, I have another job for you. It's urgent."

            Leonard brightened. "More codes, my lord?"

            "I'm afraid not. Tell me, can you draw a portrait based solely on a verbal description?"

            "Oh yes. Though I think if you have some time I could design a machine that would –"

            "I _don't_ have time. Do you have any blank sketching paper?" 

Leonard rummaged in a box next to his third prototype of a machine to foam milk. He emerged with a roll of large paper, which he smoothed out on his desk after clearing the other papers aside. 

"Very good, Leonard," said Lord Vetinari. "All I need is a sketch."

"Of course, your Lordship, though you'll be interested to see the last sketch I did of a—"

            "It's crucial that we do this now."

            "Yes, my lord, but I know you've often wondered about—"

"Leonard, I would like us to get started."

            "Oh, yes, but now that you mention it, I think I'm out of the no.2 black —"

             "--Draw with shoe polish if you have to!" Lord Vetinari said sharply. He instantly regretted it. Scolding Leonard was like kicking a puppy.

            Leonard looked at the Patrician with concern.

            "Is there something on your mind, my lord?"

             The Patrician sat beside Leonard and sighed. "There always is. Let's begin with the face."

            "It would help if I knew if it was a man or woman, my lord."

            "Of course. A woman. Now, she has..."

            "Her name and age? That sort of thing helps orient me."

            The Patrician thought hard, the memories slipping away like ice floes in his mind.

            "Alexandra. She's, I would estimate between 30 and 35. Now, her face..." He closed his eyes. "It's shaped a bit like a lemon, long side up, of course, but not lumpy, and certainly without the pointy end…" he paused, his brow furrowed. "Her face is rather brownish with freckles over the nose. I suppose that doesn't help us right now with only black ink, aha. Yes. And her eyes, they're shaped like… pistachios, and they're brown like wheat but with strange greenish streaks…" 

            The Patrician kept trying to describe Alexandra though it occurred to him that he lacked the vocabulary to say exactly what he wanted. His metaphor and simile habit kept getting in the way. Besides, thirty years ago, he may have been the only teenager alive who never wrote poetry to some unreachable love. Even if he had, his powers of romantic description would have gone rusty from decades of neglect. 

He opened his eyes and was surprised to see that Leonard sketched happily. On the  page was the shape of a face, the suggestion of cheeks and a chin, and a single eye. Everything looked…plausible. 

            "This is making sense, Leonard?" asked Lord Vetinari.

            "Oh yes, your Lordship. Do go on."

            The Patrician spoke, pausing every once in awhile to look at Leonard's progress and answer his occasional questions. With each additional detail, Alexandra's face faded from his mind. By the time they were finished, she was only a haze in his memory.

            "A striking woman, my lord," Leonard said. "I do hope I got the smile right." 

            The Patrician gazed at the drawing. The sketch was accurate as far as he could remember, which by then wasn't far. What he did remember, vaguely, was the liveliness of Alexandra, which he could barely describe but that Leonard had somehow succeeded in recreating on paper. 

            "It looks fine, Leonard," said the Patrician. 

            "I'm glad to hear it, my lord. Shall I do a painting? It would be less trouble if the lady could pose for me. Is she a shy one?"

            The Patrician smiled quickly. "Not at all. But I'm afraid she isn't able to come for a sitting."

            "Pity," said Leonard. It had been a long time since he'd had a young woman pose for him. The thought made him wistful. "I can do a painting anyway, my lord, if you could get me some new burnt umber. I would guess that her hair wasn't just brown but a rich dark brown with maybe some reddish highlights."

            "Yes, I think that's true. With…some hay here and there." 

A painting. Of course the Patrician wouldn't hang it in the Oblong Office. That just…wasn't done. But he would put it somewhere safe and look at it sometimes and wonder who she was. Perhaps he would even remember… 

"I'll have the paint sent up, Leonard," said the Patrician. "She should have something in her hands, though. A wooden cup, I think. With a little paper umbrella sticking out of it. And a coconut slice."

            "With a bit of metallic tint I could do a very good gold cup with--"

            "Just wood, Leonard," said the Patrician. "How long will the painting take?"

            "A couple of weeks, my lord. I have some ideas for a detailed background containing—"

            "A winter landscape, a barn, peasant dancers..." The Patrician's voice faded. "Yes. But first, please copy the sketch, Leonard. I would like to take one with me."

            "Of course, my lord." Leonard started on a fresh sheet of paper.

            The Patrician picked up another sheet, dipped one of Leonard's quills into the ink and began to write. He had a lifelong habit of writing notes to himself, cryptic little things that would seem meaningless to anyone else. At the top of the page he wrote: _Next Ponce Featherhew -  iconograph_. 

Satisfied, he moved further down on the paper and began to write quickly. He had to record what was left of the memories before they disappeared for good. 

END


End file.
